


just like the saints of old

by LadyFeste



Series: The Hungry City [8]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bruce Wayne is Not Okay, Bruce Wayne is a Metahuman, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jason Todd's Death, Tim Drake knows everyone's secrets, but it's against minors, fair warning folks bruce is gonna be a right jerk to tim for a while, it'll get better eventually but uhhh not in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23062120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFeste/pseuds/LadyFeste
Summary: Jason is dead and Bruce has to live with that. So far it's not going well. The neighbor kid has something to say about it.And all the other things he shouldn't know. Like the names behind the capes. Like where to go to track down a bat even on a randomized patrol. And maybe even something Bruce has never been able to admit. It's time to confront it.
Series: The Hungry City [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1378894
Comments: 18
Kudos: 112





	1. ain't seen the sunshine for ten days

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Day I was Born by Brother Dege. Which is on our Bruce playlist for this AU. Music's been a source of inspiration for this series and most of the rest of the fics coming up will be titled from various lyrics. We'll be linking all of the playlists related to this AU--including lists for characters that haven't shown up yet--at the very end of this story. 
> 
> Welcome to Phase II, the second act of this universe. We've got no idea how many fics long this act is going to be, we just know the general outline of it.

Of three things Bruce Wayne was sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

The first was that he would outlive Alfred. He knew this in the same hazy way that most children know they will watch their parents die someday. It seemed distant. Alfred wasn’t young, but he was also hardly elderly at a respectable late fifties. He’s in excellent health, saw doctors for regular check ups, and kept in shape. He had no family history of medical concerns. He was just going to become old before Bruce was ready for it. He knew this, he _knew._ He’d made himself confront that eventuality, planned for what-ifs should medical emergencies arise. He has more than a million dollars earmarked for Alfred’s health care and eventual end-of-life plan, because Alfred’s a practical man who believed in talking about and normalizing one’s own death as another part of life. But outside of that, Bruce tried not to think about it, in the same way that most children do not consider the possibility of their parents ever going, gentle or raging, into any night. 

The second was that Bruce was going to outlive his children.

This one is tenuous. He only has the two when he first had this thought, after watching Dick throw himself from a burning building only for his grapple gun to jam. He was fine, now, yes, but Bruce knew he’d never get back those two dozen heartbeats from watching his son fall. It forced him to confront the idea that vigilantism is dangerous for more reasons than one might think, and he knew his boys well enough to know they’d stay in the field until they were carried off of it. They had too much fight in them, especially as for as young as they were. Bruce himself was living proof of how risky their work was, of how many ways a body could lose itself even before it began gathering scars. Unlike Alfred’s death, the idea of Jason or Dick dying haunted his dreams. He gave no thought to the idea that he would die in the field first. He had been very lucky until now, and that luck didn’t run in that particular direction. 

The third thing he knew was that he had no idea what outliving his children would really, _truly_ feel like until he had to bury Jason. 

—————————

Bruce’s very important work of glowering over mid-quarter reports in the dimly lit study while nursing a headache and a glass of scotch was interrupted by a loud knock at the front door. He glanced at the grandfather clock, then at the entry into his study. It was just after noon on a Saturday, and he wasn’t expecting anyone. Dick wouldn’t have knocked, were they on friendly terms at the moment. He would just let himself in, either through the front door or coming up through the cave. He heard the door open and glared back down at the report on his desk, starting it over for the third time without actually absorbing anything. Whoever it was at the door, Alfred could handle it. 

The report held less appeal than the scotch. He took another sip and allowed his eyes to drift to the pictures of Dick and Jason on the corner of his desk. He’d considered boxing up all the pictures of Jason left in the house, at least until the bulk of the sharp pain was gone from his grief, but he’d decided against it. The idea felt almost like he was trying to erase Jason, and even as much as this hurt, he _couldn’t_ imagine not having Jason in his life. It would be an insult to his memory to try to hide him. It wasn’t a _good_ picture, the one on his desk. Dick’s was, of course; he exuded natural charm in everything he did and growing up learning how to perform made him photogenic. Surprising for such a handsome boy, _Jason_ hadn’t photographed well once he entered the meat of his teenage years, especially not in school portraits like this one. The camera flash made him look washed out and a little angry, the smile unnatural, the spark in his eye gone. This was the only good one of any of the school pictures Jason had taken. The pose was awkward, but Jason had obviously been more comfortable with that photographer than previous ones. It still wasn’t good, but Bruce had kept it because there was something charming about the imperfections it portrayed, the skin that wasn’t quite the right color, the outbreak of acne across his nose that he remembered Jason despairing over, the fresh grass stain on the front of his shirt. It was more than a year old, taken just before his fifteenth birthday. 

His last birthday. 

Bruce breathed in sharply and downed the remainder of his drink, standing to find the decanter again. Someone cleared his throat behind him. He turned around and managed not to flinch under Alfred’s disappointed stare. “What is it?” Bruce asked, voice raspy with disuse--had he even spoken yet today? Patrol had run long the night before. He’d only been awake for a few hours.

“A Mr. Drake to see you, Master Wayne,” Alfred said smoothly, looking between the glass in Bruce’s hand and the full day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks. Bruce unconsciously ran a hand over the scruff. “He said he had an important proposition for you.” 

“It’s Saturday.” 

“Indeed, sir.” 

Bruce stared at Alfred. Alfred did not move. “...I’m not working today,” 

“I do believe you are working right now, Master Bruce.” Alfred looked pointedly at the report still sitting on his desk. 

“That’s different. I’m not seeing people.” 

“I think you need to see Mr. Drake. His proposal is very...brazen. Shows a great deal of spirit. You should hear him out.” 

Bruce growled and dragged his feet to the side of the room where the decanter of scotch sat. “Fine. Show him in.” 

“Very well, sir.” Alfred stepped out. Bruce returned to his desk and sat, massaging his temple. A moment later, a small child entered his study, carrying posterboards too large to fit under his arm properly.

Bruce blinked at the boy. The boy did not smile, but did offer a hand to shake. “Thank you for speaking with me this afternoon, Mr. Wayne. I know you’re busy, so I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.” 

“Alfred, there’s been some kind of mistake.”

Alfred did not reappear. The boy ignored the call and instead stood the boards up on one of the closer bookshelves, as far up as he could reach. It ended up being at just over eye level of the the chair when Bruce sat down, too tired to deal with this surprise while standing. “As I’m sure you’re aware, my name is Timothy Drake,” the boy began, in a passable imitation of the proctors of board meetings Bruce usually tried to avoid. 

“Am I aware?” Bruce asked with a raised eyebrow, pouring himself a refill. He had a feeling he was going to need it. 

“I must ask that you hold questions for the end of the presentation,” Timothy said, shooting him a look that was almost disapproving. “I’m sure you’ll have many, but most will be answered as we go along.” 

Bruce called for Alfred again. 

“A little background information first.” He removed the blank first board to reveal a photo of Haly’s Circus pasted onto the board beneath it. “When I was two, my parents took me to Haly’s Circus, which is where I saw my first aerial acrobatics performance. I quickly became interested in acrobats and acrobatics. I even asked my parents to put me in gymnastics, which I kept up until I was eight. I studied other acrobats thoroughly, but the Flying Graysons always held the most of my interest.”

The child didn’t look to be much older than eight. He spoke with the steady, detached confidence of a cut throat boardroom, like he had studied and rehearsed how adults spoke to each other but only had experience with business meetings and formal social events. Bruce has a wild image of Jackson Drake giving a finance presentation with his son in the corner with a snack and a coloring book. It felt somehow even more absurd than this present moment. “Listen, kid, I don’t know what you’re trying to get at—“

“I’m getting there, Mr. Wayne. I only want you to understand that I know what I’m talking about when I get to my next point.” He flicked the poster board into the floor. The one underneath it had a picture of Batman, shot from below. He was perched on a gargoyle, with Dick as Robin hanging upside down underneath him. He couldn’t place when or where it had been taken, but he didn’t recognize it from the newspapers. “Of course,” Timothy continued, “everyone in Gotham follows the activity of Batman and Robin, at least a little. What I witnessed while watching the news years ago, however, was Robin doing an aerial quadruple somersault.”

He looked at Bruce as if that was supposed to mean something to him. Bruce shrugged and downed the remainder of his scotch, uncapping the decanter again. 

He sighed. “Mr. Wayne, according to all of my research, the only acrobats in the entire world who can successfully land a quadruple somersault are the Flying Graysons. And there’s only one of them left.”

Bruce froze in the middle of shouting for Alfred again. Ice water scattered across his scalp and dripped down his spine. A weight settles somewhere behind his lungs. The sounds of the manor—the clock ticking, the radiator, the Drake child’s breathing, the creak of floorboards settling as Alfred dusted in the next room—all seemed to be coming at him from the end of a long tunnel, and nothing was as loud as the sudden pounding of his heart.

As if the icy fingers of doom weren’t settling on the back of anyone’s neck, Timothy flicked to the next board and continued. “I know this must be difficult for you, especially after Jason’s death—and I’m very sorry to hear about that, sir—but I’ve been gathering evidence about your activities as Batman and the data doesn’t lie. You’re a better crime fighter with a partner. The kind of crime fighter this city needs.”

His hand trembled as he lifted the glass to his lips again. Right, it was empty. He fumbled with the decanter as Timothy spoke, only catching every other word. He’d prepared for this, certainly but not— _this._ Reporters, blackmailers, rogues, League supervillains, he had plans and back up plans for identity slips for all of them, and had done work in advance with Martian Manhunter and Superman to avoid needing them to begin with. What he hadn’t planned for was a child upending his world while they sat in his own study, with a slightly blurry computer printed graph blown up a little too large, with him tipsy on straight scotch at two in the afternoon. 

It’d be best to stop trying to refill his glass before he knocked the whole thing to the floor. He lowered the decanter with a solid _clink_ on the wood desk. Timothy was still talking. “I’ve thought about going to Mr. Grayson about returning to Gotham to help you again, but from what I’ve seen, I don’t think that working with Nightwing is going to be the right thing to help you. You need a new Robin. Now--”

Bruce managed to focus in on the conversation long enough to notice a picture of Jason next to the graph on the poster--a _good_ picture of Jason, in the Robin costume, head thrown back, ready to take on the world--and stood abruptly. “Listen, kid, is there someone I can call for you?” 

Timothy faltered. “I haven’t finished yet.” 

“Yeah. It’s very cute. I’m not sure what kind of drugs you’re on--good ones, it sounds like--” 

“I’m _not_ on drugs!” he said, showing some kind of real emotion for the first time since he’d come in. “There’s no point in denying it, Mr. Wayne. You _are_ Batman.” 

Bruce forced himself to chuckle. “Sure. I’m sure your parents are getting worried--” 

The boy huffed and sorted through the rest of his boards and pulled one out of the middle of the remaining posters. Bruce’s mouth snapped shut, his jaw clenching. “Where did you get those? Who took them?”

“I did, sir,” Timothy said firmly. “And I have copies.” 

“You need to leave.” He tore his eyes off the burst shots of Bruce and Jason eating ice cream on a rooftop--Jason grabbing the cowl by the ears and yanking, Bruce laughing, pulling Jason closer to dig his knuckles into Robin’s hair before restoring the cowl, he remembered that night and it _burned_ \--and turned his attention to Timothy himself. Stepping on the dropped posters on the floor, he grabbed the back of Timothy’s shirt and marched him to the door of the study. “You need to go now.” 

“This isn’t going away, Mr. Wayne. I have _photographic evidence_ that you are Batman, and I’m prepared to use it,” he snapped, pulling out of Bruce’s grip. 

“... _What?_ ” 

Timothy shoved his remaining posters under his arm. He straightened up, squared his shoulders, met Bruce’s eyes with an astonishing amount of determination. “You need a Robin. I’m not saying it has to be me. But if a new Robin doesn’t show up in the next, say, three weeks? I’m going to the police with these photos. The police, the newspapers, every media outlet in the city will know the identity of the Batman.” 

Bruce’s jaw tightened again. He sized the kid up and stepped closer, leaning down to his level. To his credit, Timothy didn’t flinch or falter. There was steel in his eyes and iron in the set of his eyebrows, furrowed in a line. He wasn’t backing down. Bruce smiled at him--not a Brucie Wayne smile, but a shadow of the savage grimace of the Bat, empty and angry. “...Go ahead, then,” he said, feeling a little vicious satisfaction at the slight widening of the boy’s eyes in shock. “Do it. Tell the whole world, if you want. There will _never_ be another Robin.” 

Timothy opened his mouth to argue. Bruce gave him one more little push out of the entry and slammed the study door in his face. He ignored the pounding on the door, stalking back to the posters littering the floor. He grabbed them up by handfuls, tearing them in half with a grunt and tossing them in the fire. Timothy still banged on the door, but Alfred would be along to collect him shortly, he was sure. He found his chair again, and the scotch. Grabbing it, he took a long pull directly from the decanter, grimacing at its lightness. No matter. He settled further into his chair and watched the posters burn, edges curling up like dead leaves. He’d find another bottle soon enough.


	2. last of the bloodline to hold sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce runs into Tim again

Bruce’s temper was surprisingly difficult to stir, especially after years of studying meditation and self mastery, but somehow snooty acquaintances at galas manage to touch every button. Especially when they spoke of his children, as if they—Jason especially—were some kind of great burden on him. “You’re so brave, Brucie,” people would say, “I don’t think I could have opened my home to a strange child from Crime Alley. It must be so difficult, trying to raise him.”

Difficult.  _ Difficult _ , when they’d never bothered to get to know either of his wonderful boys outside of a few formal meetings and more than a little racism. They didn’t care, either, they asked in  _ small talk,  _ as if Bruce would agree with a long-suffering sigh and talk of his own kindness. He resented their dismissal, resented the notion that Jason was somehow harder or less than Dick because he was a Latino boy from the alleged wrong side of the tracks, even though these were often the same people who spoke to him in hushed tones about Dick being a Romani circus freak. As if he would ever compare them like that.

Dick came with his own set of challenges, of course, but all of those trials stemmed from the fact that he was eleven and his parents had been murdered in front of him. Bruce had promised he would not be a father to him unless that’s what Dick said he wanted, because Bruce remembered what it felt like to lose that. To feel he wasn’t doing anything right by his parents. The trouble was, Dick was eleven and angry and deeply hurt, and he didn’t know what he wanted. One day he and Bruce would be perfectly civil and comfortable maintaining the distance of ward and keeper, the next Dick would throw himself headlong into the role of son, clingy and bright and adoring, the love rolling off of him overwhelming in the best possible way. The next day he would seem to resent Bruce, and resent himself for accepting the parenting that was offered. Bruce needed more hands to count the number of times Dick shouted “I hate you” to his face, and every time it had hurt, even in the brief time before Bruce has realized that no matter what Dick asked him to be, he would always consider the boy his own. 

Alfred offered advice that Bruce even occasionally took, since Alfred had already done  _ exactly  _ this with Bruce himself. But Alfred had had the advantage of knowing Bruce since he was a baby, and Bruce had already considered Alfred a third parent. He insisted Bruce was worse, because Dick  _ was _ trying more often than he wasn’t, but it was difficult. Especially with Dick’s level of energy, and when he grew older, his overactive sex drive. Getting his ADHD diagnosed had helped, but nothing they tried subdued his energy or thrill-seeking. Until he allowed Dick to join him on patrols as Robin at thirteen.

Letting Dick help put the man who had killed his parents behind bars helped with a great deal of the anger too, and made him wonder how he would feel seeing his own parents’ murderer in prison. If it would change anything. 

Dick was loud and brash and hyper and charming and kind. He took up too much space, couldn’t sit still, couldn’t find his own direction. His temper sat on a hair trigger but his need for people and attention usually drove him to forgive quickly, even if the root of the problem would flare up again later. He was fickle and often pushed too hard and Bruce loved him fiercely, with everything he possessed. 

But Jason.  _ Jason. _

Jason was  _ easy. _

After a rough several month long period in the beginning when they just didn’t know each other well, they started clicking, and Jason proved to be eager to please. All he had lacked was resources and opportunity. With Bruce, he had both, and quickly revealed an ability to self-govern that far surpassed Bruce’s own at that age. Jason didn’t need to hold himself to anyone else for comparison or signs of improvement. He wanted to be better for  _ himself,  _ to surpass whatever goals  _ he  _ set. He loved school, loved structured time,  _ loved  _ learning. He was studious and bright, easily made good grades, took to school with relish, and Bruce enjoyed ripping apart those teachers who had seemed surprised by that. 

Not that it was all easy. It took time to earn Jason’s trust and break him of the habits that had ensured his survival over the last few months alone. In the end they just ignored the silverware going missing and the food hoarded in his room and the go bags cached throughout the manor, opting instead to just let Jason decide for himself to trust the first adults in his life who bothered to care for him properly. He had a violent streak, and was too eager to throw himself into a fight, and had a tendency to get stuck in his own head, but most of that were things that age, experience, and training would resolve. 

He had asked to become Robin only to  _ help people, _ not to enact plans of justice of vengeance. He had seen the worst of the city and all he asked was to be given the tools to help. 

And now he was dead.

And Bruce was left with this burning black hole in his chest and near strangers at parties floating up and saying they were  _ so sorry _ about the loss of his son, he was always a special boy. He needed a drink. He needed to scream. 

He needed to punch someone. 

* * *

Leaving the gala was easy since he wasn’t the host. He hadn’t hosted anything since before Jason’s death. Bruce didn’t bother trying to act drunk, he just told Anna Carmichael that he’d had a lovely time but he was tired and would like to be home now. It had only been five months and people were still treating him gently. What  _ wasn’t  _ easy was putting on the bat suit in the back of the limo while Alfred glared at him from the rearview mirror. 

“Don’t,” he snapped, once, when Alfred had opened his mouth. “Just  _ don’t _ . I can’t tonight.” 

“You need to be  _ careful.  _ You’re not invincible,” Alfred said anyway, his eyes hard, mouth pressed into a thin line when he wasn’t speaking. 

“I’ll be fine.” 

“You don’t have any back up with Barbara--recovering and Master Dick in Bludhaven, sir.”

“I’ll be  _ fine, _ ” Bruce snapped again, yanking the cowl over his head. “I’ll call the car to get home.” 

Alfred hummed disapprovingly. “The self driving feature is still highly experimental--” 

Bruce opened the car door--the street was deserted--and shot a grapple line up to the nearest gargoyle, slamming the door closed in midair. He relished the pull on the muscles in his arm and shoulder as he was pulled from the car from at least thirty miles an hour on the edge of the business district. That would hurt tomorrow. Right now it just felt  _ right.  _

He checked his bearings at a street corner and decided to head southwest. It wouldn’t take more than half an hour to reach Dixon Docks by his usual patrol route even without the batmobile, and there was always trouble at the waterfronts. Swinging through the city didn’t leave him much to think about. The soreness in his arms from the yank on the grapple, the controlled fall of the line and swish of the cape into its stiff boned-wings to glide over the next rooftop could almost have been considered peaceful if he wasn’t in such a dark mood. The tension from the gala remained under his skin, grating with every jump. When he came within sight of the water, he landed in a neat tucked roll and stood, heading toward hushed, angry voices in between buildings not far away.

It only took another ten minutes to find the first fight. A purse snatcher, put down with two punches, hardly satisfying. He handed the bag back to its owner on the next street and grappled off toward a frightened shout. This one was a mugger, and not much more of a fighter than the last. Bruce didn’t wait around to hear the gratitude of the man he’d saved. That’s not why he was here tonight, it’s not what he  _ needed.  _ If he was going to go out on an off night in such a manner that he knew was going to make Alfred schedule in an extra appointment with his therapist, it needed to be  _ worth  _ it. 

Within the hour, the first feelings that he was being followed began. 

They’d been happening on and off for the last few weeks. The sensation was easy to ignore, but he kept an ear open. He crossed to the next street and perched on the edge of a building, careful to avoid the obviously loose gutter joints. He took a deep breath, grateful that the miniaturized air filter at the base of the cowl’s nose piece eliminated most of the smells of fish, ocean, and trash coming up from the ground level of the docks. It made it easier to work out where the smell of gunpowder was coming from.

Specifically, to the east of his position. Snapping the cape stiff, he jumped and glided to a lower roof to the east, about a hundred yards away. From there it was just a matter of fiddling with the receiver built into the left gauntlet and listening for anything suspicious in the area. Finding the remains of a gang drug deal that had already started going south was easy. 

The one still clutching the largest gun was the first to go down. Bruce let out a savage laugh as he buried his fist in the man’s stomach and yanked the gun out of his hand, ignoring the impact of a bullet sinking safely into the armor at his shoulder blade. He smashed the butt of the gun into its previous holder’s jaw before whirling around and hurling it into the face of the next nearest gangster. In seconds he was surrounded. _This_ is what he’d needed, he thought in a flash, his head snapping to the side with a blow. He laughed again and dove into another gangster. This one had a knife, but that was useless against most of his armor. When she tried to stab him, the blade skipped off his chest, and her eyes widened in terror. She staggered back, untouched, and three more swarmed to take her place, waving handguns.

The weight of the suit on his muscles and the contact of fists to flesh made it impossible to feel the yawning absence in his chest where his son should be, helped him feel steadier and more attached to the earth. It didn’t matter than he was outnumbered at least ten to one and the two gangs didn’t seem to care that they’d been trying to kill each other since the Bat showed up. Bruce fought like a man possessed, ignoring the knives nicking through weak joints in the suit and the blood pouring from his nose after a lucky strike. Two more bullets hit his torso, and there would be bone-deep bruises all across his chest when he returned to the manor that night. He was beyond caring anymore. His mind was quiet.

Four of the gangsters went down fast, but those remaining were fighting smarter than their mates and Bruce was flagging a little, some of that frantic energy leaving him. Someone grabbed him from behind and held tight, with a strength that suggested a minor meta ability. Bruce struggled against his captor, throwing his head back into the man’s face even while someone drove a lead pipe into his stomach. Wheezing, he tried driving his heel into the man’s toes. He missed. The pipe hit again. He felt a rib crack. The woman with the pipe reared back again, grinning at the jeers and taunts that only now were registering in Bruce’s hearing again.

He bared his teeth. There was a dull  _ thunk _ , and the woman’s eyes rolled back into her head as she fell to the ground. Behind her stood a boy with a metal baseball bat, his wide, monolidded eyes visible through the holes he’d cut through an oversized beanie. 

The rest of the gangsters were so  _ startled  _ it was easy to break free from the meta’s grip. Bruce stooped to grab the fallen pipe and slammed it into the meta’s shoulder. Without the protection of the Bat suit, the man’s shoulder shattered in a horrific, bloody  _ crack _ that forced a strangled scream out of him before he passed out. Someone else screamed too and swung a gun at the kid. The pipe made contact with their forearm next. 

“Get out of here!” Bruce growled at Timothy Drake, grabbing him and shoving him backward out of the fray. Timothy staggered once, and instead of turning to run, swung his bat at a gangster going for the dropped gun. The element of surprise wasn’t going to protect him for much longer, but it was long enough for the few gangsters remaining to recognize that Batman seemed to like the lead pipe more than his own fists at the moment. The crunch of bones breaking was satisfying in a way it really shouldn’t have been. They started running.

“Mr. Batman—“ Timothy began, but closed his mouth with a snap as Bruce tossed a bolas at them. It hit one, sending him careening into the other two, twisting all of their legs together. Bruce shot a line over a street lamp and walked over to secure their bindings. When he was satisfied the knots would hold, he strung them upside down from the light and had his suit call an ambulance for the ones still screaming on the ground.

Timothy flinched as he strode toward the boy, even before he’d grabbed onto the front of his hoodie and started hauling him away from the gang. “Batman—“ he started again. Bruce cut him off with a snarl. He fell silent until they were a street away, in a no less dangerous, but certainly less populated alleyway. 

“ _ What _ were you thinking?” Bruce barked, giving the boy a shake before releasing him. 

Timothy took a couple steps back, not removing the homemade ski mask. “You needed help.”

“What are you  _ doing _ here?”

“Following you!”

“You’ve been  _ following  _ me?”

“ _ Yeah,  _ of course!”

Bruce growled, fists opening and clenching. “ _ How?  _ How did you even know I was out?”

“I knew there was a gala tonight and figured you’d leave early. You’ve been leaving all of them early, and—“

“You were at the  _ gala?” _

He shook his head. “No. I was at the coffee shop across the street. You fell into your patrol route. I’ve had those memorized for years.”

This was getting them nowhere. “That’s not the point. You could have been  _ killed _ with a stunt like that! What were you  _ thinking? _ ” 

“You need a Robin!” Timothy snapped. “It’s been more than three weeks!”

“And I haven’t noticed any Batman tell-alls,” Bruce snapped back, savagely pleased at the small fists also clenching, skin around his eyes blushing in the hazy light. He’d been bluffing. Of course he’d been bluffing. Any kid who could figure out the Batman’s identity could also figure out how important it was to everyone that it stay secret. 

“...so maybe I’m not going to tell anyone,” Timothy said, voice small and angry. “It doesn’t change the  _ truth _ . You  _ need  _ a Robin! You would have been toast without me tonight!”

He bit back the urge to snap  _ maybe that’s the point _ and nearly bit his tongue. “I don’t need anyone. You’re going to get killed if you keep doing this.”

“And I’m gonna keep coming out without training until you agree to get a Robin. Could you really live with that?” He sounded so  _ smug. _

“That’s  _ your  _ decision. It doesn’t have anything to do with me. Go home, kid.”

Timothy shook his head. His leg twitched as if he was resisting the urge to stomp his foot. “I  _ can’t _ . The city needs you, and it’s not going to have you if keep this up. You need _ help. _ “

Bruce reached up and shot a grapple line up to the roof. “I don’t need  _ you _ ,” he snarled, and let the line drag him up from the street, nearly dislocating his shoulder for the third or fourth time that night. He took off across the roof at a sprint and glided to the next building, grappling away as soon as he landed. Timothy couldn’t follow on foot if Bruce covered enough distance in a short enough time. He didn’t spare a thought to leaving the child alone in an alley in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city. It wasn’t as if he was defenseless. He had a bat. 


	3. but you know i'm alive

Bruce woke with a groan, the feeling of weight quickly vanishing from his chest. He tried to lift his hand to his face, but his limbs still felt too heavy to move. A wave of nausea rolled over him, centering behind his eyes. He retched, but nothing came up. Opening his eyes, he saw, instead of a smoggy, uneven grey sky, a fluorescent light hanging by a braid of cables from a stained ceiling. His eyebrows knit together in confusion. His blood was buzzing, but his limbs already felt less like stone. He rolled onto his side and looked around, trying to take stock of the situation.

Last thing he remembered was falling after the hook on his grapple line slipped from its post. While he was grateful to not be waking up in an alley, there wasn’t any reason he should be--here, wherever here was. The faded posters and graffiti on the walls, falling ceiling tiles, and fallen shelves suggested an abandoned store of some kind. The fatigue sinking deep into his muscles was difficult to wade through, but not impossible--he’d trained until he could fight in spite of it, so he sat up with a low groan. 

“Oh, good. You’re awake.” 

Bruce’s head shot over in the direction of the voice, moving fast enough that a headache erupted behind his temples. It was Timothy Drake because  _ of course  _ it was Timothy Drake, why would it be anyone else? What other sort of luck did he have? “What are you doing here?” he asked, voice rasping in his throat. 

Timothy shrugged one shoulder, the motion a little crooked due to him having his arms wrapped around his knees, sitting up against one of the ruined shelves. “You landed in a dumpster when your grappling hook came loose, and I figured you’d prefer to wake up indoors. So I pulled you out and dragged you in here.” 

“How?” He knew from the research he’d done when Timothy first started bothering him that the boy was about twelve years old, but he was a  _ small  _ twelve, with a weedy, underfed look. Likely about to go through a growth spurt. He didn’t have the strength to drag Bruce far. 

“I used the grapple line rig to pull you out of the dumpster and onto a couple of trash can lids, as a kind of litter. Only had to go about fifty feet to get inside.” 

It was resourceful of him, he’d give the kid that, but it raised more questions than it answered. Bruce rolled onto his heels and stood, satisfied that he was only a little shaky. “What are you even doing  _ here,  _ out on the streets? I told you to stay  _ away  _ from me.” 

Timothy frowned. “What, I don’t even get a little thank you?” 

“I don’t need your help,” he said, trying to lower his voice into Batman’s register. He just needed...a few minutes of rest. Then he could leave. 

“See if I fish you out of any more trash, then.” 

He was cocky in this setting, having just accomplished something and with a look in his eye that suggested he had nothing left to lose. It reminded Bruce of different dark haired boys, in masks and tall boots, and it  _ hurt _ . The pressure on his chest returned, and it had nothing to do with the fall. “Go home, kid. Your parents must be worried sick.” 

The boy shrugged again. “They don’t know I’m out, so they’re fine. Besides, are you gonna escort me home?” Bruce said nothing. “Yeah. Didn’t think so after last time.” 

“You seem to have made it out fine,” Bruce growled. He leaned against the nearby wall for a moment, then reached for his grapple gun. If he could just make it to the roof, he could ditch the kid again. But his grapple wasn’t in the usual place. He patted down his belt, headache increasing. 

“Lose something?” Timothy asked. He hadn’t moved from his seat on the floor, except to rock back and forth, the movement almost too slight for the eye to follow. 

“My grapple gun must still be in the dumpster.” 

“Or it might be right here.” One arm unfolded from the self-hug, revealing Bruce’s grapple gun dangling from the boy’s fingers. 

Bruce huffed in annoyance and pressed the button to call the batmobile. It’d be several minutes before it would arrive. In the meantime--he held out a hand. “Give me that.”

“Not until you at least hear me out.” He dropped his knees and climbed to his feet, tightening his grip on the grapple, his jaw setting in determination. 

“Kid--”

“No. You  _ have  _ to listen to me. I know you don’t  _ want  _ to, but you need to hear it.” He shoved the grapple into the pocket of his hoodie. “You’re getting sloppy.” 

“ _ Excuse  _ me?” 

“I’ve been watching you for  _ years. _ Studying your movements. I know your habits and patterns as Batman better than even  _ you  _ probably do. That bad grapple shot tonight?” Timothy shook his head once. “It  _ never  _ should have happened. You were aiming at a gargoyle  _ fifteen feet  _ away and you  _ missed.  _ Before that was the incident with Killer Croc, not to  _ mention  _ the fact that Joker nearly  _ died  _ the last time you and Nightwing fought him.” 

The memory of that fight sent ice water through Bruce’s buzzing veins. He didn’t want to think about it, and Timothy had  _ no  _ idea what he was talking about. More to the point-- “That was  _ two months _ ago!” 

“That just means this has gone on too long. You’re getting  _ sloppy. _ You’re getting hurt. You’re getting other people hurt.” 

Bruce grunted and turned away, intending to stomp out the busted door, but a wave of dizziness prevented him from moving further. “You don’t need to worry about me.” 

“I know that!” Timothy snapped, arms tensing. He must have been clenching his fists in his pocket. “I’m  _ not  _ worried about you! Though maybe you  _ should  _ be worried, considering your recovery time’s getting longer.” 

“My-- _ what? _ ” 

Timothy gave him an imperious look down the bridge of his nose that Bruce recognized from Janet Drake at the last gala they’d both attended. “ _ Please  _ don’t insult me by pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about. The point is, you’re careless. Reckless. I know you’re upset about Jaso--”

“You have  _ no idea  _ what I feel,” Bruce snarled, taking several steps toward the boy before he realized he was moving. Timothy’s eyes widened and he took a few steps back. “What I  _ feel,  _ what I  _ do,  _ none of it is your  _ business.  _ It has  _ nothing  _ to do with you.” 

He stopped when Timothy was just a couple more steps toward another wall, this one close to a large broken window. The streetlight outside flickered madly, illuminating a thick steam rising up  from a grate near the sidewalk and throwing odd shadows onto the boy’s face. His gauntleted hands closed and opened, closed and opened again. “...I can look after myself,” he said, reigning in his temper. “You don’t have to concern yourself. I’ll be fine.” 

The words snapped Timothy out of whatever fear he’d felt. He rolled his eyes, looking young again. “You’re not listening to me. I already  _ know  _ you’re a metahuman. You didn’t let me get to that poster in my presentation and I worked  _ hard  _ to get that data.” 

“You--what?”

“Even if I  _ didn’t  _ know before, it’d be kind of hard to miss since you were  _ dead  _ when I pulled you out of that dumpster.” 

All the blood in Bruce’s body rushed to his ears. His heart pounded, his skin suddenly felt too tight, his hands shook. “I was _ unconscious _ .” 

Somewhere from the end of a very long tunnel, he made out Timothy’s voice. “Uh, no offense, but I’ve been walking Gotham at night since I was seven, I’m  _ pretty  _ sure I know the difference between unconscious and dead. And this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen you.” 

“What?” he asked, barely louder than a whisper. He had to sit down. 

“You realize you took nearly five minutes to wake up this time. The first time I watched you die, you were up again in less than  _ one _ .” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about--” 

“You don’t think that’s significant?” Timothy asked, moving toward him as he staggered back. “My calculations have been pretty rough, but I think you’re recovery time is increasing--” 

“Shut up,” Bruce whispered. 

“--by between two and eight seconds with every death. Which means you’ve died between thirty-three and a hundred and thirty-five times, and about forty percent of those deaths--” 

“ _ Shut up. _ ” 

“--have occurred just in the five months since Jason died.” 

“You can’t  _ know  _ that.” 

Timothy gave him an odd look. Overstimulated and on the verge of panic, it took Bruce a long time to recognize it as pity. “I’ve been watching you for five years on and off, sir, in one way or another. I can do the math.” 

“You can’t  _ know. _ You don’t know what you’re seeing,” Bruce tried. “The suit protects me.” 

“Sure it does, from a lot of stuff. But not Mr. Freeze’s ice, or Ventriloquist shooting you in the head--” Bruce gagged and swallowed quickly. It went unnoticed. “--or Penguin blowing you up. It didn’t protect you tonight from falling twenty stories and breaking your neck on the edge of a dumpster.” 

“That’s not--”

“This  _ can’t  _ be that big of a deal. I know you knew before. Dick had to have known, you definitely couldn’t  _ hide  _ it.” 

A fluttering sigh forced its way out of him. Bruce wet his lips and inhaled, trying to steady himself. “No one knew.”

For once, Timothy looked shocked. “Dick doesn’t know.” 

“He doesn’t. I don’t talk about it.” 

“...Jason didn’t--”

“Never, no one. We’re not supposed to talk about it.” They shouldn’t be talking about it now. It was the elephant in the room, it was just another of the million taboos that were  _ never meant _ to be spoken out loud, and this  _ child  _ was just  _ saying  _ it, like it was as easy as breathing and not collapsing Bruce’s world by pointing out how  _ impossible  _ he was, how  _ wrong,  _ how  _ damaged. _

“Not even Alfred?” 

“What?” That threw him just enough to allow him to breathe in again. “No! I mean, yes, I-- _ maybe? _ ” 

Timothy tilted his head. “Does he or doesn’t he?” 

“You’re not supposed to  _ talk  _ about it!” Bruce snapped. His shoulders trembled. He stepped back again. 

The boy was silent for a second, the kind of silent that, had Bruce not been struggling to breathe, he would have considered dangerous. Then he continued. “...Well. Your ability protects  you, but that doesn’t mean you can just take any risks you want. You’re sloppy, and--and  _ suicidal _ , and it’s making you careless with others too.” 

“Shut up,” Bruce said, a hand coming up to cradle his head. 

“You’re dangerous,” Timothy said hotly, moving toward Bruce again. It shouldn’t have been intimidating, but somehow the  _ knowledge  _ and the swagger made him look more imposing than he possibly could have been. “You’re especially dangerous when you’re  _ angry, _ and you’ve been angry a lot lately. You put others in harm’s way. You know I’m right.” 

“You don’t know anything.” He drew in a ragged breath. 

“You’re violent and uncontrolled. Undisciplined. Reckless and hasty. And  _ you  _ may be a meta freak who doesn’t stay down when he should, but other people can’t get up again when they’re beaten to death--

“Shut  _ UP. _ ” 

Bruce wasn’t aware of moving. It was like his vision had gone black for a second, like he’d blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, he and Timothy were at eye level and he was so angry there was no more room for panic. It took another second to realize he was looking Timothy in the eye because he was dangling off the ground, slammed against the wall hard enough to crack the fading drywall, his fists wrapped tight around his throat. 

Timothy’s eyes were wide, his small hands scrambling at Bruce’s, feet kicking as he struggled to draw in air through the hands squeezing his windpipe. “Please,” the boy, the  _ twelve-year-old _ boy rasped. “Sir--please, sir-- _ please--” _

Horror washed over Bruce, strong enough to make his stomach lurch again. He opened his hands, sending the boy sprawling to the ground. Timothy coughed a couple of times and breathed in deep, pulling his knees up to his chest again. Bruce took a step backwards, staring down at his hands and blinking. 

For the time it took Timothy to recover, the abandoned building was stone silent and too cold for October. Except for the boy’s shoulders trembling, there was no movement. Once the rattle was out of his breathing, Timothy pushed himself to shaky feet again, squaring off and lifting his head to meet Bruce’s eyes. “You need a Robin,” he said, the words rough and sandpaper dry. “You had to see. I’m sorry, but you had to see. The Batman doesn’t kill, because you’re a good man, but anyone can change. And you’ve been through a lot. It’s not that I think you need a Robin to protect you. I think you need a Robin to hold you  _ back. _ ” 

Silence fell again. Bruce straightened and nodded once. “...I understand your concern. I’ll take it under advisement.” 

Hope flickered into the boy’s face. “Does that mean I--” 

“No. I can’t be responsible for you getting hurt. And you  _ will  _ get hurt.” The sound of the batmobile engine roared up to the alley outside the store and stalled, waiting. Bruce turned, flicking the cape behind him and headed for the broken door. 

“...Does Alfred know how many times you’ve died since you lost Jason?” 

Bruce froze in his tracks. “...What?” he asked, glancing behind him. 

Timothy met his gaze again. He could practically see the calculations he was making. “You said you didn’t talk about it, but from your stuttering answer earlier, I think it’s pretty clear Alfred knows. About you. Not staying dead. And Dick  _ doesn’t _ know at all. But  _ I  _ do.” 

The panicky  _ wrongness _ returned, but less loud now. He was too tired to fan it into another full panic attack. “What are you--” 

“I couldn’t go to the presses with your identity, but there’s no danger to the city in telling Dick his father’s functionally immortal, and showing him the pictures I have to back it up. Or in telling an old man that his ward has been carefully killing himself nearly twice a week,  _ every  _ week, since mid-April.” 

Never mind, turns out he  _ could  _ muster up another panic attack. “You  _ wouldn’t. _ ” 

Timothy shrugged with a small smile. “Not if I was Robin, I wouldn’t.” 

Bruce stared at him for a long moment, then blinked and headed for the batmobile. He opened the back door. “Get in the fucking car.”    


* * *

The day Dick Grayson came into Bruce’s life had been one of the worst and one of the best. There had been so much raw  _ grief _ in the moment, it had eaten into everything it touched for months after Dick had been formally placed in his care, stirring up deeply unpleasant memories and complicating an already complex life beyond belief. Looking back later, he knew he wouldn’t change a single thing--and even though it had hurt, and it had been hard, and messy, he loved Dick more than he loved his own life and couldn’t imagine being without him.

The day he’d met Jason was only one of the best. Nothing had colored their interactions beyond Jason’s base level mistrust of all adults he encountered, and Jason warmed up fast to the idea of having a family. If Dick was a ray of sunshine, Jason was a firework, and they’d worked well  together in the brilliance of his light. He’d loved Jason more than he thought possible, and he’d loved  _ who he was _ with Jason, loved that Jason’s quiet intellect and quick wit sparked a giddiness in Bruce that he had thought he could never get back. 

Now there was Timothy. Bruce told himself it was different, it would  _ never  _ be the same. He didn’t want Timothy, and the boy had his own parents, had his own resources and home. Timothy would not be moving into the manor, would  _ not  _ be spending more than training and patrol with him,  _ would not _ be taking a place in Bruce’s heart next to his boys. This was convenience, spite, and manipulation, nothing more, and if the boy was already  _ this  _ good at the latter then he’d have to keep a sharp eye on him. 

But. He would be Robin, a new Robin, when Bruce swore he’d never endanger another child again. And a corner of himself that he usually ignored was recalling an old nursery rhyme about counting blackbirds. 

_ One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a death... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELCOME TO PHASE 2--I hope you guys enjoy Bruce's ability. There are a lot of sources of inspiration for it, but it was also important to us that whatever his metagene gave him, it was a power that would highlight his humanity and not detract from it, since Batman's humanity is what sets him apart from most of the Justice League members. 
> 
> If you follow either of us on tumblr (we're liz-alfos and lady-feste-pendragon there) you'll know that despite being not essential in any way whatsoever (we both work at a furniture distributor for crying out loud) our work got marked essential due to a loophole and corporate is milking that for all it's worth, so neither of us are quarantined. No extra time to power through writing, which is Deeply Unfortunate for a lot of reasons, and I, at least, won't be able to write/post any faster than usual. The gf has been sitting on stuff though and is So Ready to publish it. 
> 
> Playlist time! None of these are complete, and they're being added to as we find songs. Full disclosure, there are NOT spoilers in these playlists bc they're just songs but like.....some of the songs are for things that haven't happened yet, partly bc a lot of these playlists are for characters who haven't made an appearance and if you listen to them they May be able to get an inkling of what canon points might connect to the au at times. If you're looking for some music, go ahead and check out: 
> 
> The Immortal Bruce Wayne--Bruce https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4BTNovZpFQ9suNDHjIDlC3  
> Flippin' Out--Dick https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2xy7VeTsl9i8pagRYX0Pjm  
> (RED)emption--Jason https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3EyQtZ2PLfKTVxfyel39GC  
> Replacement--Tim https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2LAHuRIpp44DVcjU97CPQT  
> Blood-Right--Damian https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0HcWDz4l2Lxe7G5Tv2cB5R  
> Spoiler Ahead--Steph https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1CVgaoJKxo2h8P4S90ty5d  
> Oracle--Babs https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5qsY0uIcKhKC3K2aFP6FkM  
> Silent Knight--Cas https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0ENaSYGvBu78yTmlfVkAH9  
> Light in the Dark--Duke https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5fmQoz3Y8Gi1Xi70TzqrEW  
> It's Me, Terry--Terry McGinnis https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7FCmwcCEv9V4jTmhQqpLX7
> 
> Batsy--The Rogues https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0Lz3VImTBOrENxCb20GwtM  
> Living Breathing Gotham--Gotham, the city https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0EbzP4S7yfAngWNYmd0SvF  
> Little Robin Redbreast--the position of Robin https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4mS5EphI6CZiNbtM2kflQn
> 
> Until next time, enjoy! Stay safe!


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